Section III
2022
Ducks in Heaven meg smith
A fire splashes over the Merrimack, even along its silver elbows— and nothing is taken as granted here. Well we know this view is not the same view as so many others, for whom this same river runs gray from tears, or with the passage of broken sleep. The only sure passengers are ducks, with dusty feathers and sullen comment that nevertheless does not judge. And you, scientist, and cousin of all waterfowl, reader of their laws, conduit of their sighs, flow forward. The song will sound, from rocky banks, even as cars and music blur past, even as a new call cries out from every traffic island, every memory.
The Lowell Review
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